Prelude
by We Forgot
Summary: *ABANDONED* Adam and Company find a frightened young woman, a new immortal in the heart of Seacouver and try to tame her - backstory and introduction of MH. *ABANDONED*
1. Chapter 1

The girl sat shivering on a bench. She wore a threadbare ankle length coat with splitting seams. The coat had once been a dark blue but had been washed to a near gray over time. Her pale green eyes glittered like broken beer bottles over the collar of the coat. Her face was pale and pinched, her features mostly hidden behind the collar of her coat and her unruly red brown hair. Her hair was thick and curly but shone with oil and hung lank. Her thin bony hands clutched her coat close, the edge of a near colorless skirt and battered boots protruded underneath the coat.

The weather was cold, in the low thirties. The streets were lightly dusted with a sheen of snow, the few pedestrians rushed about their business eager for warm offices and similar refuges. The low hiss of air breaks broke the relative silence of the city. The girl twitched and glanced down the wide five-lane street, nearly deserted. Puffs of her breath escaped the muffling coat collar and steamed into the air.

She narrowed her eyes. Half way down the block from where she sat a garbage truck was parked at an angle. A man dressed warmly in heavy clothes and boots was hauling on a trashcan. The side of the truck was emblazoned with a logo and list of services. She shivered and hunched further into the questionable protection of her coat.

As the truck grew closer and sporadic pedestrian traffic faded into silence and stillness the girl studied the truck. It was green, battered and scraped, the rear was filled with trash that had yet to be compacted, the warmly dressed man seemed to be the only one driving and moving trash cans into position for an automated arm to lift them and dump them into the rear of the truck. The logo on the side read:

Maloney's Refuse Service

We Haul Away

Your Headaches

Below it read another legend:

Maximum weight 6,000 LBS

She stared hard at it and then sat up slightly. She tucked her coat tight and slowly stood up. The truck passed her and turned down a side street.

"Haul away." The girl muttered. She started walking in the opposite direction from the truck's last turn.

"Maximum weight." She murmured and smiled coldly. The desperation and confusion behind her eyes faded away, icy determination curled her lip in a satisfied sneer.

"Maximum Haul Away, Max Haul-Away." She murmured

She passed a newspaper vending machine, the story on the front of the showpiece paper showed a photo of a smiling girl, below it read the caption: Search continues for missing 22-year old secretary Sara Lock. The photo looked like the girl in the too big coat.

Across the street from the girl stood a man. He was on the fire escape of the building opposite her. He wore a warm knee length wool pea coat and a skullcap. Both were black. Her also wore expensive boots and jeans. His hands were tucked into his pockets. He watched her pass below and across from him his dark eyes glittering in the winter sun.

Three months later.

The girl stood over the man. She held a short knife in her right hand, the left hung empty and limp at her side, her grip on the knife was hard enough to whiten her knuckles. The man stared up at her with horror and desperation in his eyes. His mouth was taped securely. He was seated on a steel chair, his chest, hips, and legs trapped in layers of duct tape. His short dark hair was mussed, sweat stood out on his pale face, he wore a dark sweater and jeans, and his feet were clad in socks. The socks were misshapen and dirty, his jeans and sweater were peppered with blood, his nose was swollen and darkly discolored he breathed raggedly through it. His eyes were bloodshot.

She crouched in front of him looking up into his eyes, studying what she saw, or did not see there.

The man groaned and wailed through the tape, he tugged against his bonds, succeeding in doing little more than rocking the chair.

"Why me?" The girl asked in spite of the seemingly self-pitying words her tone was academic, cold, almost calculated. She was dressed in clean non-descript clothes, boots, jeans, and a warm sweater. It was early spring now and still cold enough to require long sleeves and the occasional coat. Her hair was pulled back from her face; her features were cleaner and brighter than before. Less hunted, her cheeks were flushed and her eyes glittered almost feverishly.

The man moaned and shook his head. She sighed and pressed the edge of her razor sharp blade to his cheek.

"I asked you a question. Why me? Why did you decide on me?" Anger crept into her voice as she increased the pressure.

The man's eyes rolled wildly and he strained to avoid the edge of the knife. She smiled and pressed it harder against his flesh, the meat of his face parted effortlessly under the pressure of the blade, as it bit into his face it also cut free the tape on his mouth, freeing it enough to allow him to speak.

"Go ahead and scream no one can hear you." She advised generously. He did, an ululating cry of panicked terror.

"Now, answer the question." She ordered.

"What are you talking about?!" He demanded, unheeded tears spilling out of his eyes and coursing down his cheeks.

"Three months ago. Armstrong Park, about 815 at night." She hissed venomously. A tear slipped into the freely bleeding wound on his face, he winced.

Her features were twisted now eyes narrowed and filled with fire, lips peeled back from her teeth in a grimace of anticipation. She shifted the knife to her opposite hand and ran a finger along the man's bloody jaw line.

"Why me? All I want to know is why me?" She hissed.

"I don't know what you're talking about!" He screamed.

She did some things to him with the knife and left him alone with his screams. He bled slowly, sobbing in fear and pain. As his wounds slowly clotted and his sobs faded away she returned. He didn't see her at first. She stood so still and quiet studying him. The shadows shrouded her in darkness hiding her form and glittering eyes.

She stepped in front of him and pulled a steel chair - the twin of his- in front of him. She sat on it and placed the knife on one knee the handle toward her.

"I understand the rape, I do, I know you're twisted, sick, evil even, you felt compelled, I even understand why you cut me, I do, you were afraid, didn't want to go to jail. But what else did you do?" She asked softly, her tone was almost kindly.

"I've never seen you before!" He shouted angrily. Her gentle tactics allowed his rage to overcome his fear. She sighed and reached into the shadows beyond the man's sight.

There was a rustle of paper and the girl dropped a newspaper at the man's feet. It was the same paper that had been on display.

"Sara Lock." She said stonily pronouncing each syllable very carefully, like a person speaking a foreign language and attempting to use a word, which if spoken incorrectly would be deeply offensive.

"What? Who- no that's impossible!" He stammered and tried once again to leave his chair.

"Isn't it just?" She asked coldly.

"Why did you choose me?" She asked again, patiently.

"You were alone, you were weak, no one paid you any attention, and it was easy!" He stammered in a flood of words hysterical glee leaking through the fear..

"So is this." She snarled and slit his throat. He gurgled, and twitched, his legs beating the floor, hands straining against the tape desperate to reach up, to stop the flood of blood, slowly, his gestures ceased, his eyes glazed. She sat staring at him for a long time. Finally she stood and left, the dead man's blood soaked into the discarded newspaper, obscuring the photo of the shyly smiling girl.

As the girl left the abandoned loading dock a man moved in the shadows near the entrance. It was the same man who had watched her before. His hawkish features narrowed in thought as he watched her walk across the muddy area surrounding the parking lot of the decrepit building and vanish across a set of rusty railroad tracks.

Her shoulders were hunched, her hands shoved into her jeans pockets, she walked blindly, hurriedly, stumbling over the tracks and nearly falling. He cocked his head as he watched her vanish into the spring morning. A speculative expression crossed his features for a split second then his face went blank and neutral.

Once she was gone he gingerly picked his way across the mud and into a small belt of trees. Parked within the trees and hidden from sight was a small agile SUV. He hopped in and drove it up the to rear of the loading dock. He got out and opened the rear hatch. The interior was layered in sheets of thick plastic with a cheap generic blue tarp folded in one corner and a cardboard box with chemicals nearby. He retrieved the tarp and tossed it on top of the chemicals. He carried the gear into the loading dock. He dragged the dead man chair and all on to the tarp and wrapped it securely. He dragged the heavy load out to the SUV and hauled it into the rear. Returning for the chemicals he opened two bottles of bleach and soaked the blood stains. Dropping the empty bottles he opened one more and soaked a perimeter around the obvious stains and splashed nearby upright surfaces. He tossed the third bottle away as well. Satisfied he studied the scene for a moment he registered the blood soaked newspaper and picked it up.

An unreadable expression flickered across his face. He shook his head minutely and opened the last bottle of bleach; he tossed the paper to the floor with a wet glopping noise and emptied the bottle onto it. He discarded the last bottle and ignored the now empty box.

Returning to the SUV he closed and locked the rear hatch after throwing a few blankets over the tarp and hopped into the driver's seat. Closing the door he pulled out his cell phone and hit a single number, dialing a stored number.

"Hey Joe, yeah is Macleod back from Paris? I think I have a project for him. Yes a new immortal, no I don't take on students, you know that. Yes well that may be true but- no. She's… delicate, I think she could use his help more than mine at the moment. I'll see you at the bar. No I'm not just going to tell him, fine, goodbye Joe."

"Bloody stubborn…" He muttered and trailed off. He started the SUV and left the loading dock behind.

It took him most of the rest of the day to dispose of the dead man and insure there was no trace evidence lingering to connect the dead man to the girl or himself. He strolled into Joe's Bar just after dinnertime. He entered and surveyed the crowd languidly. His usual corner at the bar was empty as expected and Joe was behind the counter speaking with a tall broad shouldered man.

"Adam get in here you're letting the heat out!" Joe shouted. Adam smiled thinly and slipped inside. He perched on his usual seat, managing to look boneless and relaxed while remaining securely on the stool. As soon as his butt hit the familiar leather a bottle of beer was at his hand.

"Joe said you caught wind of a new immortal?" The broad shouldered man asked. Adam smiled.

"Yeah Mac, a girl. Not sure what she's doing here. Saw her out in the industrial area, she wasn't armed, looked scared."

"You didn't try to stop her or talk to her?"

"Nope."

"Ass." Mac snapped.

"I followed her and got her address. Want it?" Adam asked sweetly, he was holding a slip of paper between two thin fingers dangling it near Macleod. The younger immortal snatched the paper and studied the address. He shrugged his coat on.

"Careful, she's running scared, you could get bitten." Adam warned.

"She needs help, before she's challenged."

"I know a nice convent." Adam offered. Mac shook his head and headed for the door.

"Let me know how it turns out!" Adam shouted over the noise of the bar. Macleod raised a hand in acknowledgement and left.

"So?" Joe asked.

"So, what?" Adam replied feigning confusion.

"Come on Adam, why did this girl catch your eye? You don't take on students and you keep yourself to yourself."

"Hrmph." Adam said.

"Right." Joe snorted and took back the beer he had set up for the immortal. Adam sighed and scrubbed his face.

"Fine, let's go to the back." He grumbled. Joe held up the beer as bait and led the way to the rear storage area of the bar. In between the shelves of dry goods and the barrels of beer and neatly stacked empty bottles sat a small desk with a computer and three comfortable chairs and a small end table. He set the beer on the end table and took a seat.

Adam retrieved his beer and stared down at the floor in thought.

"Do you remember a few months ago, the local secretary who went missing?"

"Sure, all over the news."

"Yeah well she didn't stay missing, or meek and mild. Someone killed her."

"Damnit, she's the new immortal?" Joe asked. He looked weary and frustrated. Adam nodded finishing his beer. Joe gestured at an open crate near the nook they were cozied up in. Adam helped himself to a second.

"Yeah, she killed the guy who murdered her, she thought he had made her immortal. I guess it made sense in a weird way. He raped her and killed her, surely he made her immortal too right?"

"Jesus." Joe breathed.

"Yeah. I think… He might've broken her too."

"How… did he die?" Joe asked wariness in his voice.

"She tortured him and then cut his throat." Adam sighed.

Joe paled.

"No more than he deserved." Joe argued weakly. Part of him sided with the girl, but anyone who could torture another person was… damaged.

"Sure but to go from mild secretary to someone capable of tracking, capturing, torturing, and killing a strong aggressive male?" Adam shook his head.

"She could be an asset or a goddamned liability."

"So you lead Mac to her."

"Would you prefer I teach her? Look we both know Mac is damn near the perfect immortal, he can teach her to be a good person, I can teach her how to stay alive and keep her head. Which do you think matters more right now?"

"God you're conniving." Joe breathed half amazed. Adam shrugged irritably and sucked down his beer.

"If I'm right Mac saves her and doesn't have to kill her thirty years from now."

"If you're wrong?"

"One of us kills her before the end of the year." Adam growled.


	2. Chapter 2

The girl was huddled in her apartment. She had an array of newspaper clippings, crime reports and news stories spread around her and several candid shots of the dead man at the loading dock. She sat with her arms wrapped around her knees slowly rocking back and forth and staring sightlessly at the paperwork. The knife she had used lay on a pristine white linen napkin. Its blade and handle were tacky with mostly dry blood. The room was cold, cold enough to prevent the blood from drying fully. As she rocked her breath steamed in little puffs.

After awhile the girl frowned and rubbed at her head as though pained. Grinding her teeth she closed her eyes and grimaced. She shook her head and opened her eyes. She could hear someone in the hall. She stood up silently and carefully crept to her doorway.

The door was closed and locked. She stood there breathing shallowly. Someone knocked on the door; the sound of the fist against the door startled her and her tense from jerked slightly. She shivered and let out a shaky breath. She leaned forward and stood slightly on her toes, peering into the peephole in the door she frowned.

A strange man was standing outside. He looked normal, she didn't get a dangerous vibe from him. She frowned. He didn't seem to be leaving. She paused and thought hard. There was no other way out of the apartment. She hurriedly moved about gathering up the paperwork. She stuffed it into a bag and shoved the bag into her nearly full garbage. She wrapped the knife in the linen napkin and slipped it into her pocket. The stranger knocked again. Her jaw flexed in annoyance. She slipped into her kitchen and retrieved a dangerously sharp, expertly balanced chef's knife. She held it in one hand in a reverse grip, the flat dull edge of the blade was against her forearm, the handle protruding from her fist, it was a fighting grip, allowing her to slash, defend, and if necessary stab.

She slowly undid the chain on her door and slipped the dead bolt back. She opened the door a crack and looked at the stranger. His eyes were a rich dark brown and kind.

"Who are you?" She growled.

"I am Duncan Macleod of the Clan Macleod, hopefully I'm here to help you."

She laughed in his face. "What kind of introduction is that? What are you a reject from a fantasy novel, fuck off." She snapped and tried to slam the door. The stranger put his foot in the way.

"A few minutes ago you felt sick, had a headache, maybe it felt like pressure, you've never felt anything quite like it before a few months ago. Whenever you feel it someone approaches you, maybe tries to kill you." He said quickly. She frowned and glared up at him.

"Who are you?" She demanded. Her fist itched to jam the knife in his throat and get the hell out of town. She could plant the murder weapon in his pocket and take the trash with her, maybe put it in his car, of course she didn't know if he had brought a car –

"I'm immortal like you." Her train of thought crashed.

"Wha- what? Immortal? Dude –"

"Several months ago you died, violently. When you woke up you were fine, not a scratch. Since then every injury you've received has healed almost instantly, if you've been killed you came back, you keep getting these strange sensations and meeting strange people, your world has gone insane, right?" She frowned hard at him still deciding whether knifing him were the best option.

"You're an orphan a foundling, you have no biological family." He continued. Macleod knew all immortals were orphans he was guessing from what little he knew of her history that she had been a foster kid or worse.

She came to a decision. She opened her door and stepped back but made sure the knife in her hand was visible. The man –Duncan- entered carefully. He moved slowly and calmly. She glared at his caution and sneered.

"What do you want?" She demanded.

"You need someone to teach you about being immortal, that's all I'm offering."

"Why teach me? Why not kill me?" She demanded. The man frowned.

Duncan had not told her about the macabre Game the immortals engaged in. He guessed others had tried to kill her or else she was deeply paranoid.

"Why would I? You've done nothing to me." He said gently. The gentle tone rankled her she narrowed her gaze and flexed her jaw.

"Look pal, I don't know you, I don't know what's going on here, what happened to me or why, I don't know if you're lying to me but I do know this. No one is going to hurt me again. You try and I _will_ kill you." She hissed. The set of her jaw and shoulders and expression on her face left no doubt in the Highlander's mind. She meant it. He nodded once not breaking his gaze with her. She waited a moment and then returned the nod.

"Okay. Now what?" She asked.

"Put down the knife and pack your things. You shouldn't be alone anymore, you're a target." He said carefully. She studied him.

She really had no reason to stay in the rotten apartment; her possessions were small, mostly clothing and could fit in a small gym bag. She nodded. She gathered the few things she felt were valuable or useful enough to salvage and slipped them into her bag. She slipped the knife into the back of her jeans and returned to the stranger's side.

She took a deep breath and looked up at him.

"Where to?" Her voice only quavered a hair.

Macleod took her to his dojo initially. The living space was Spartan and somewhat cramped but its access to the dojo was obviously a benefit. He settled her in as best he could while she glared at him suspiciously.

"One more thing, what's your name?" He asked her. She was standing in front of him the sad little bag of her worldly possessions at her feet.

"Max Holloway." She growled. He nodded.

He doubted that was her given name but at least he had something to call her by. He left her to herself and went back to Joe's. She would need time to settle into the new sounds and feel of the dojo and the loft. Macleod's presence would only distract her. The bar was closed early when Mac arrived. The staff was gone, only Joe and Adam were there. They were sitting near the short stage at the front of the bar.

"What's the verdict?" Adam asked. Macleod frowned at him.

"She's seriously screwed up." Duncan sighed.

"Not surprising." Adam mused.

"Does she have a Watcher?" Macleod asked Joe. The mortal grunted.

"I don't know I haven't checked." Joe grumbled. Mac hesitated. He knew Joe hated it when the immortals treated him like a who's who or a Rolodex of immortal vital statistics.

"I'll find out Joe, no worries I've still got access." Adam interrupted, heading off a fight. Joe frowned, not sure that would be a better method.

"I just want to know if I need to keep her from going after anyone, she's seriously paranoid, pissed off, hostile, and determined to never get hurt again."

"Smart girl." Adam opined.

"Shut up Methos, you set me up." Mac snapped.

"Really?" Adam asked with a smirk.

"So what if I did?" Adam nee Methos crooned. Mac scowled.

"Look she needs help, if you don't scoop her up then one of us will have to kill her if she keeps on as she is. You want that?" Methos continued with a sigh.

"Would it kill you to be upfront with me, just once?"

"Yes, probably." Methos said with an impenetrable smile.

"Fine, but I'm going to need your help." Macleod growled.

"Oh no you don't -"

"She doesn't trust me."

"What the hell do you want me to do?" Methos scoffed shelling a peanut one handed and washing it down with a slug of beer.

"Dig into her background and talk to her. You understand her better than I do, convince her to let us teach her. She isn't capable of trust." Mac asked.

"You've known her for what, three hours and you know that?" Methos sneered.

"Just please do it." Mac asked tiredly.

"Its your martyr's cause do it yourself." Methos snapped.

"No, you are going to help because even you recognized she needed help, if you can see that then you can shift your ass to help me give it to her."

"You are a terrible influence." Methos growled but slipped out of his chair and sauntered toward the door. Macleod wearily took the older immortals seat and regarded Joe. Methos slipped out the door with a smile twisting his lips.

"I don't know if we can help her." Macleod admitted watching Methos leave.

"At least you're willing to try." Joe pointed out while engaging in the time honored bar tending duty of beer mug polishing.

"I suppose."

"Thinking of Richie?" Joe asked.

"Yeah."

"Richie is fine Mac, mostly because of you." Joe sighed. The two had argued a lot and several times Duncan had inadvertently attempted to kill his protégé. Still they were on relatively good speaking terms.

"If I took another Dark Quickening with Max I'm pretty sure she would just kill me and not try to talk me down." He mused.

"So you wouldn't have a chance to kill her or for her to be rescued at the last minute and resent you for life." Joe pointed out. This actually cheered the Highlander some.

"Good point." He said with a small smile and took a handful of peanuts.

Methos stared up at the Dojo and sighed. The too bright spring sun reflected off the nearly white concrete of the sidewalk. He stood on the corner and watched the languid sluggish traffic ooze by. Years ago the city had been sued. Instead of repairing the all too common potholes and strips of delaminated asphalt of the cities roads they had put in handicapped accessible curbs, talking crosswalk warnings and lowered all the crosswalk buttons eighteen inches.

Methos smiled. Progress was always entertaining. He didn't begrudge the new status of the blind and handicapped, was rather impressed that at long last such people were becoming full members of society, standing up and taking their rights back. But he found the timing amusing. The roads might be hell, too battered and fracture for most cars but a man in a motorized wheelchair was a-okay to try to cross them.

He was avoiding the reason he was there. Sighing he scrubbed his face. He was getting a headache. Being around Macleod usually resulted in a headache. He flexed his shoulders and stepped off the sidewalk. Sauntering across the street he considered his quarry. The girl was definitely unhinged. He felt a distant sort of sympathy for her; it was a tough situation to be in. Still, she was about as safe to be around as a half starved wolf. He sighed and entered the building.

As he crossed the main area of the dojo he felt her. He smiled, hiding his presence was difficult and gave him a massive headache he was pleased to be in the open. He didn't know more than a handful of other immortals who had ever been able to dampen their quickenings, just as well, he didn't want too many others to know it could be done.

Shrugging his shoulders back and adjusting his coat he started walking again. He reached the elevator and headed up. He was very deliberate and forceful in his movements. He did not want her to think he was sneaking up on her.

He stepped into Macleod's loft and glanced around. The girl was standing across from him, a familiar looking knife held in her right hand. She glared at him.

"Right, you can put the hardware down." He said taking a step back into the elevator. What had he been thinking? This was stupid she was unstable and he had seen her willingness to kill, with his luck she would saw his head off with that pig sticker.

"Who are you?"

"No one important, look I'm a friend of Macleod's."

"Why are you here?" She demanded. Her tone was controlled tight, but her knuckles were going white on both hands, her free hand clenched in a fist.

"Well I could lie to you and tell you I forgot something but… Macleod thinks you'll trust me more than him, at the moment at least." He added staring at her knife in consternation.

"You're…immortal?" She half asked.

"Yeah I am, you got the headache?" He asked oozing further into the elevator. Screw Macleod this was his pet project he wasn't getting his hide perforated for this bull shit.

"Yeah I did. Why does he think I'll trust you?"

"Probably because we aren't so different, but y'know on reflection I think he was mistaken-" He said reaching for the elevator door hoping to put it between himself and her.

"How so?" She asked lowering the knife. He sighed and closed the door.

"Look, we aren't particularly nice people. Macleod is, he's a boy scout but he's the exception. There are a few out there like him but most of us are … a little more volatile." He grumbled through the gate. She frowned and seemed to process this.

"Volatile?"

"You ask a lot of questions."

"I don't know anything." She shot back.

"Well true enough." He sighed. He studied her for a moment. She still seemed to be teetering on the edge of a true melt down the whites of her eyes gleamed a little too freely, what the hell. He sighed and lifted the gate.

"My name is Adam." He grumbled. She lowered her knife but didn't put it away.

"Max." He knew better but kept his mouth shut. Who was he to belittle someone using a new name?

"What now?"

"Now you sit and listen." He said and helped himself to cold beer from Macleod's fridge.

Max watched him. He could feel her eyes on him for the half second it took to retrieve the beer, he carefully kept the fridge door between them. Glancing over the top of the door with his beer in hand he smiled at her.

"Beer?"

She shook her head, a tiny movement that sent her curls twitching. He sighed and opened his beer stepping away from the fridge and letting the door close.

"I won't tell you you're wrong to be paranoid around other immortals Max. Honestly you have every right to be paranoid and you should be. But you also need to learn to hide it. Subtlety and diversion are going to be valuable weapons for you. But first, you're going to have to trust Macleod, learn from him, gain strength from him."

"Gain strength?"

Adam chuckled softly and leaned against the counter beer cradled in one hand.

"Yes strength. Like it or not he's the best immortal I know and a consummate warrior. Learn how to fight from him, in fact learn how to fight from everyone you meet. The world is now you're school kid. He'll teach you physical and mental strength but you have to trust him. Of all the immortals I've known he's the only one I would trust."

"How old are you?" She asked suddenly.

"Old enough to better and young enough to want to live." He smirked and set his beer down. Folding his arms he sighed.

"Look-"

"Dude, you just told me not to trust any immortal but Macleod and you're asking me to take your word for it?"

"You're not as dumb as you look. Ultimately its up to you." He said retrieving his beer he strolled back to the elevator.

"Wait." She said suddenly.

"Why do I need to know how to fight?"

"You don't want to know?" He asked mildly stepping onto the elevator.

"Just answer the question asshole." She snapped gripping the knife hard again.

"Ask Macleod." He said and pulled the gate down. He watched her the elevator engaged and started to lower him. She watched him with a mild air of hostility and intrigue. Adam laughed as the elevator disappeared.

'There,' he thought, 'mission accomplished just enough curiosity and sound advice to get her to listen and consider.'

He strolled away from the building feeling smug.

"She's all yours." Methos said reclaiming his seat.

"What just like that?" Macleod asked suspiciously.

"I am very, very good." He said wisely.

"Riiight. Wise, that's one word for it." Macleod snickered.

"You wanted her to listen to you? Well she'll listen now." Methos growled. A shadow of suspicion flickered across Macleod's face. His dark eyebrows knit in a frown.

"What did you do?" He asked carefully.

"She's fine." Methos sighed and sneered into his beer.

"Methos?" Mac prodded.

"Honestly what are you twelve? You ask me to do a thing; I did it, now you want to question me on it? You asked me okay? And it's done, now, go talk to her." Methos grumbled. Macleod tossed a bill on the bar top for Mike, Joe's bartender and nodded at him.

"I'll be back." He tossed at Methos. Methos rolled his eyes in annoyance and finished his beer.

The bar was medium full now mostly the lunch crowd. Methos watch the sole waitress effortlessly navigate the tables delivering drinks and burgers. It was like a dance. He allowed his eyes to slip out of focus just enough to render the patrons and bar into colorful blobs. Shaking himself he sat up he was thinking blue thoughts and hardly drinking his beer.

Macleod's reaction to him and his suspicion troubled him. He wasn't surprised by it but … well maybe that was the problem. Years ago the two had nearly come to blows. Macleod unable to accept Methos had still found it in his black and white heart to save him from another immortal's just blade. That wasn't fair though. Macleod might see the world in starker shades of gray than most but it was still largely gray. If you kill an innocent you die. Never mind that Methos' crimes were at least a thousand years old. He sighed and set his beer on the bar top.

Max had killed. Would Macleod judger her? Macleod didn't know what Max had done. Methos had made certain of that. He felt for her, she had her back against the wall, had been heinously mistreated and battered but instead of collapsing, allowing it to annihilate her she had fought back. A little too literally for modern sensibilities but then… he shook his head.

No, better not to tell Macleod, if Max revealed it so be it, until then he would keep his nose out of it. He stood up and tossed another bill to Mike. Mike blinked in surprise but scooped it up and dumped it into the till. When he looked up Methos was gone.

"Max?" Macleod called. He heard movement further in the loft. He knew she was there he had felt her on his way up. He waited for a moment then stepped into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and pulled out two beers. He noted one missing from the six pack he had bought the day before. He smiled and shook his head.

"Your friend stopped by." Max said walking into the kitchen area.

"Yeah I suspected as much." He said glancing at the remaining beer in the fridge.

"Weird guy." She said accepting a beer from Macleod. He was relieved to see she wasn't armed at least not overtly. She was still dressed in the clothes she had arrived in but she was barefoot. She stared up at him with bags under her eyes.

"Hungry?" He asked she shrugged. He nodded and smiled. He deliberately turned his back on her and picked up his phone. While he placed an order for a delivery with a local deli he waited to see what she would do.

"So what did Adam have to say?" He asked turning back to face her. She had stepped closer and was fingering the counter nervously her fingers tracing the grout and tile of its surface.

"He told me … he told me to learn to fight." She said with a breath.

"Good advice." Macleod said gently.

"He didn't say why I needed to learn." She said gazing at him levelly.

"Here." He said giving her the beer. She accepted but didn't open it. She watched him as he rounded the little counter and entered the living area. He sat on a small couch and looked up at her. She stayed put.

"We're immortal Max, do you believe me?" She narrowed her gaze and then nodded once, a tight tense gesture.

"We can only be killed if we're beheaded. All immortals… when an immortal dies her essence, her Quickening is released. If it is another immortal that kills her that immortal will absorb the Quickening. To be immortal is to fight and kill other immortals. One day at the end of the Gathering there will be only one immortal, that immortal will have all the power and knowledge of every other immortal." He delivered the facts gently watching her face as he did.

"You're crazy." She breathed. Her expression was surprised and afraid.

"No Max I'm not. You felt me when I came in you felt Adam before. You died and woke up and can't be hurt. How is that any crazier?"

She opened her beer and downed a good portion.

"Okay so maybe you're right why don't all immortals just … stop?"

"Why don't all nations give up nuclear weapons?"

"Because you can't trust that once they've all been dismantled or destroyed the little guy in the corner who kept one won't attack and kill all the big guys." She said nodding.

"We aren't all hunters Max, most of us only participate in the Game when we have to."

"The Game? That's what you call it?"

"That's what its always been called."

"Phwew. Right. The Game. So, there's the Game which is where we run around decapitating each other, the Gathering?"

"The Gathering is what draws us to each other."

"Huh, good name. So, the Game, the Gathering, and Quickenings, the life essence that another immortal what eats? Absorbs? Bonds with?"

"Yes."

"Jesus this is nuts. No I'm not going to teach myself to behead people just so I can... swallow their _souls_, this is… no." She said and shook her head.

"There's more. There are rules to combat. Once a challenge has been issued it has to be met and no one else can interfere. You cannot fight another immortal on holy ground."

"That's it?" She asked angrily.

"I'm sorry Max I am. Immortality … it's a burden and a gift." He said kindly.

"Look I'm sorry but are you listening to yourself? You are freaking nuts man. Thanks but no thanks I was doing fine on my own." She snapped.

"Max-"

"Dude! Fuck. Off." She growled as he moved to stop her.

"If you go out there unarmed and defenseless you _will_ die. I thought you didn't want to be in that situation again." He said softly stepping into her path. She glared up at him but he could see her thinking it over.

"Fine, you make a good point." She muttered.

"Give me three months. After that do what you like but for three months I will teach you to survive."

"Where's the catch?" she demanded tilting her chin at him obstinately.

"You do everything I say."

"Three months of immortal boot camp?" She asked tentatively.

"If you want to survive, yes."

"Deal." She said and held out her hand to him. He accepted and they shook.

She stared at him for a moment.

"So what now?"

"I need to run out for awhile do what you want. I'll be back soon."

"What about the food?"

"There's cash in the jar by the stove." Macleod left. Max stared after him only relaxing when the elevator's motor fell silent.

So immortal boot camp? She shook her head. It was nuts. But then what else could she do? She had felt the presence of Adam and Duncan, literally felt it, her scalp had crawled, her ears buzzed like someone had clapped their hands over them and her head had ached. It hadn't been so bad this time but what else could explain that? She had never met either of them before and had no reason to react on a psychological level…

She scrubbed her face and padded further into the dojo. She slipped her socks and boots on and looked at her duffle bag. She could take it, take it and run get out of the city. It was tempting but if these two weren't nuts she was just running head long into another desperate situation. She didn't want to run anymore. But everything she had seen from them said they were okay, even if they sounded nuts.

So should she stay or should she go? The thought elicited a smile and she started to hum and sing under her breath.

"Should I stay or should I go now? If I stay there will be trouble …" She picked up her duffle bag and tossed it to ground stretching out on the couch she went to sleep. She needed it.

Methos was sitting in his little apartment scribbling away in a leather bound journal with blank pages. He went very still and then cocked his head. Silently he got to his feet and gripped the familiar handle of his sword. He crept to his door and waited.

"Its me Methos." Mac called. Methos rolled his eyes and smirked but looked through his peephole before unlocking the door.

"You should call first." He muttered and returned to what he was doing. Macleod closed the door and watched the older immortal for a moment.

"I owe you an apology." He said and dangled a six pack of beer.

"Thanks I'm good besides you owe me more than that." Methos smirked after glancing up and seeing the beer and kept writing.

"Your journal?" Macleod asked.

"Yes and no you can't read it." He said pausing in his writing he looked up.

"I'm sorry Methos –"

"You can't help yourself Macleod. One day maybe but for now… forget about it."

"Methos-"

"How's Max?" He asked closing the journal and getting to his feet.

"Better whatever you talked about it seemed to help."

"I advised her to learn. And to trust you."

"You did?"

"Of course I did, you asked me to, besides it happens to be good advice." He was searching a bookshelf full of folios, journals, and tattered ancient scrolls. Grunting he slipped the book he had been writing in into a tiny gap at one end of a shelf and turned to Macleod.

"You owe me a great deal of beer." Methos said facing Macleod. Macleod laughed and nodded.

"Fine, dinner I'll buy."

"I should bloody well hope so." Methos grunted imperiously.


	3. Chapter 3

Max slept soundly until drunken laughter woke her. She was on her feet with the knife in hand before she remembered where she was. Not putting the knife away she took a minute to clear her head and locate the source of the laughter.

It sounded like it was coming from the elevator but the gate was down and elevator was on the lower floor. Still barefoot she padded over to the elevator. She could hear Duncan's voice but the words were distorted. She heard another voice and more laughter. She shrugged and backed away from the shaft.

It was Duncan's home he could entertain if he liked. She went back to the couch and stretched out. But she couldn't sleep. The sounds from below weren't particularly loud or disruptive but she still couldn't sleep. Finally she slipped the knife under her pillow and cradled the handle in one hand and relaxing at last she slipped into sleep once again.

Bright morning light woke her. She blinked and shifted; her knuckles brushed the handle of the knife. She gripped it tight and slipped it out from under the pillow. Sitting up she slipped it into her pocket and looked around for Macleod. It was early. The light slanting through the window had the characteristic pallor of early morning. She felt surprisingly refreshed considering she'd slept on the couch.

She didn't hear any movement in the little living area. Putting on her socks and boots she took the elevator down.

Two of the weight benches had been pulled away from the wall and were facing each other two empty twelve packs of beer were sitting neatly stacked near the exit. There was no sign of anyone else. Max grunted and shoved the benches back in place. She retrieved the empty boxes and bottles and carried it outside. She walked around the side of the building into an alley looking for a dumpster.

Spotting one she walked over to it and tried to pry the lid up. It seemed to be stuck she grunted and left the box on top of the lid. Walking back she felt the now familiar presence of another of her kind. Shaking it off she slipped into the dojo as quietly as she could. A blonde man was standing in the dojo. He had a blade in hand and was staring at her suspiciously.

"I'm Richie Ryan." He said coldly.

"Uh, Max Holloway." She said glancing around for a weapon.

"Are you going to challenge me?" He asked. She blinked and then the penny dropped.

"No! No look I'm… new I guess I don't even have a sword –"

"Fine. Where's Mac?" His tone had warmed slightly but was brusque business-like.

"Mac? Oh Duncan I don't know. I think he and his friend Adam were here last night-"

"Adam? Heh sure. Look if you see him let him know I stopped by okay?"

"Are you going to challenge him?" She asked curiously. She was wondering if she could jump him on his way out. Maybe get him trussed up for Duncan.

"Challenge him? No way I used to be his student."

"Oh." She said in surprise. She shouldn't have been. The man although he seemed young was confident, not eager to fight, and intelligent. She nodded once.

"Sure I'll tell him."

"Thanks. Hey Max?" He said putting his sword away and walking past her to the door.

"What?" She asked taking the bait.

"Watch your head." He said and left. She mimicked his words and rolled her eyes. She turned to head back upstairs and felt yet another immortal. She grunted.

"What is this immortals r us?" She grumbled. Having been warned or rather awakened to the reality of immortals meeting each other unawares she reached for a practice sword of some kind of wood. It was sitting on a rack on the wall. She doubted it would do her much good but it was better than nothing.

She stepped out of the door's line of sight and waited off to one side.

"Max?" Duncan called. She smiled and stepped into view. He had one hand under his coat apparently reaching for his own sword.

"Hi. Richie stopped by."

"Good I've been meaning to talk to him." Duncan said taking the sword from Max and putting it away. He smiled at her.

"There wasn't really anything else at hand." She explained. She had her knife but she doubted that would be much help against a sword. At least not up front.

"We'll fix that." Macleod said.

Max followed after him like a small confused child as he headed up to the loft.

Methos was scribbling in his journal again. He had a scroll laid out in front of him and was transcribing it into the journal. One day when he had transcribed the reams of scrolls he had kept for all these years he would he supposed scan them into a computer. He could scan them now but risked damaging them. Besides he sometimes enjoyed reliving his older experiences. Sometimes… other times he had to put the journal down and leave it unattended for a time to let the ghosts settle. He had regrets, once he had guilt, now… he had memories, still the ashes and ghosts of remembered feelings and people remained. He smiled and leaned forward to get a closer look at the line he was transcribing.

There was a soft almost thoughtful knock at his door. He frowned, he wasn't expecting anyone and hadn't felt an immortal. He ignored his sword and slipped a small automatic hand gun into rear of his waist and went to the door.

Joe was standing outside. Methos sighed and undid the lock.

"Come in." He said. He left the door opened and returned to his work area. Making a mental note of where he had been interrupted he delicately rolled the scroll up and put it in a hard leather case. Putting the case on a shelf he closed the journal and set it next to it.

"Busy?" Joe asked.

"Nothing that can't wait." Methos said with a warm smile. He enjoyed Joe's company.

"You know." Joe said a few hours later.

"I know a lot to what specifically are you referring?" Methos asked between bites of pizza.

"You know you're a little hard on Macleod."

Methos rolled his eyes.

"Have you ever worked with wood before? If you're hammering a nail in to oak rather than pine you have to hit the nail harder." Methos grunted.

"Yeah well. Not all of us have your easy moral fluidity." Joe pointed out.

"Yes well not all of us have needed it Joe."

"Blah blah." Joe laughd.

"Macleod is just young Joe."

"Young?"

"Mentally. You're older than him."

"He went through Culloden and a dozen other wars, he's just as old as I am."

"Maybe. He doesn't see gray Joe it makes people like me nervous."

"He doesn't hold the Horsemen against you anymore –"

"Yes he does Joe. It doesn't matter that it was a thousand years ago. That the world then would be unrecognizable to modern 'civilized' people. He does and he will and he can't help it."

"Yeah well." Joe muttered.

"I need more beer." Methos grumbled.

"He loves you yeah know." Joe said. Methos laughed out loud.

"Yes like one loves a familiar boil on their ass."

"See that's why you don't get along. He really does care for you, Macleod sees most people as potential friends or at least as simply people you see them as threats."

"I do not. I like people Joe."

Joe laughed.

"What? I do. I like people you're amusing."

"So what you're not human?"

"I honestly don't know anymore." Methos said with a smirk. Joe suspected there was more truth in that than he was letting on.

"We're amusing? Maybe you're too analytical looking at us as separate. You're as human as I am Methos you're just a little crustier."

"Hmm a lot crustier."

"How's Amy?" He asked changing the subject.

"Good, and you're Watcher?" Joe asked.

Methos made a face.

"Lurking."

"They still think you're just mild mannered Adam Pierson, for the record."

"Yes that's me. Mild mannered, bookish, uninteresting, fairly young, Adam Pierson." Methos muttered.

"Heh have you read your chronicle?"

"Maybe."

"They know you screwed with the Methos project. They're trying to sort out the fact from the fiction."

"Heh, there isn't any fact."

"Yeah well, how long do you think it will be before they figure out the truth?"

"I'm not too worried about that. People tend to underestimate you if you let them. They'll never think that Adam Pierson the sniveling, sneaking, afraid of other immortals, academic stuck in research is Methos. Never happen."

"Heh if it does?"

"I've disappeared before."

Joe felt a pang at that. He didn't want Methos to vanish out of his life. He didn't have too many good friends and hated to see him leave. Still the fact of his life among the immortals was that he risked losing them everyday. A mortal friend was certainly going to die but it was expected he or she would die of age after years of life; the immortals could be literally cut down at any time. He shook himself from his reverie.

"How is Amy?" Methos asked refilling Joe's Scotch.

"She's doing well. Out of the field looking at getting a promotion soon too."

"Good she deserves it, she's done well for herself. After Shapiro well things could've gone worse than they did." Methos mused.

"Methos-"

"No Joe, new topic okay?" Methos did not feel like reliving the dark days surrounding the death of Jakob Galati and his own involvement in the immortal's death. He had experienced many dark times in his life but that had made him question himself in ways he hadn't since the Horsemen. To sell out an immortal to mortals, just so he could be brought to his knees and slaughtered, it was against everything he thought he knew.

He wasn't sure what was driving him to bring up these painful and best forgotten topics but he kept doing it. He glanced over his small apartment, his gaze settling on his familiar broadsword and smiled.

"Thinking?"

"Nothing important. So planning on following Macleod to Paris?"

It was the opening in a long debate the two had been running. Methos thought that since Joe and Macleod were friends Joe should get some say in where the immortal lived, Joe insisted that it would be interference and thus taboo. Methos always laughed and pointed out that half of Joe's friends were immortals and interference had gone the wayside years ago. Still Joe had his principles as oddly applied as they were. Methos privately thought Joe just didn't want to remind Macleod that Joe was aging and the cross Atlantic trips were getting harder on him.

As the afternoon crept into evening and finally night the two continued to talk and laugh and sip away at their respective drinks finally Joe cried age and left for home. Methos smiled as he watched his friend leave. He enjoyed Joe, thoroughly. The two rarely had a clam exchange or saw a situation in the exact same way, which was apparently part of the attraction.

Methos cleaned up and returned to his work. He carefully unrolled the delicate scroll and pulled a work light close. Scanning the scroll he found his place and began to scribble. The letters were strange and faded. The handwriting was his but he still had to pause and examine the writing several times to be sure of the letter or word. Years had a way of making more than just hand writing fade. Immortals had eidetic memories, but given enough time, or motivation, and even those memories could wear with time. As he worked he bent closer to the page, his handwriting slowed and grew laborious. Then subtly and gently his hand stopped moving, his face pressed to the desk and he was asleep. A moment later there was a soft tock as the pen tumbled from his fingers and clattered to the floor.

He moved, murmured, but stayed asleep. His now empty hand lay very still and slightly cupped as though reaching for something just out of reach. He sighed softly in sleep and fell silent.

Max ducked and squealed as Macleod's bamboo practice sword swatted her savagely in the shoulder. She bared her teeth and brought her bamboo sword up sharply, hoping to strike Macleod in his gut. Once again, moving with freak speed he avoided the blow and managed to strike her again in the upper chest, she let out a low whoof as the wind fled her lungs and hit the mat spread eagle.

"Concentrate." Mac said harshly and helped her up.

"Easy for you to say –" She started to argue. He tossed the sword at her; she caught it solidly and lashed out at Macleod, again he halted her blow and knocked her down.

"You're getting angry, first you have to concentrate, know absolutely what will happen in the next few seconds, then you can allow yourself to become angry, but you have to _think_ first."

"Fuck you." She snarled reaching for the sword, nearly blind with rage.

He struck her across the face with the length of bamboo, hard enough to draw blood. She shook her head, splattering blood drops and blinked.

"Get up." He ordered. Stunned out of her fog of wrath she obeyed. She was shaking with adrenaline.

"Listen to what I am telling you. You know how to counter these moves. Come on we'll do it slowly at first then I'd like to show you a few other things before lunch."

She stared at him hard and serious for a moment and then nodded once, catching her breath and letting out a puff of air and wiping at the blood on her neatly healed cheek.

Methos woke and sat up. He frowned down at the scroll. Moving stiffly he stood and stretched then looked around idly for the dropped pen. Scooping it up he set it on the desk next to the scroll. He sighed and left the paperwork where it was he rubbed the back of his neck and wandered into his kitchen. Measuring coffee grounds out he poured them into a cheap coffee maker and added water. He leaned forward and pulled the curtain away from the window in front of the pot. He sighed at the view.

His apartment was almost subterranean half below ground and half above. The view he was looking at was of the overly manicured lawn of the complex he was living in. It was ringed with neat square hedges and as perfect as it was it was equally depressing.

There were no children in the complex, very few couples and no pets. The only sounds were soft conversations, vehicle engines, muffled tvs and the dryers in the communal laundry. He listened to the echoing thumps and rattles of the dryers and blew out a breath; he let the curtain fall into place and started to make some toast.

He needed to leave. He knew that. He wanted to wait until Macleod went to Paris and took Joe and Max with him. But he didn't know if he could wait that long. With a grunt he hit the cancel button on the toaster and turned off the coffee pot. He grabbed his coat and sword and left. The door locked automatically behind him.

Max groaned and struggled to make her legs work. She was jogging, at least that's what Macleod called it. She called it an endurance challenge from hell. She looked up at the crest of the hill just in time to see Macleod crest it. She gasped and spared enough energy to scowl but kept her legs moving. She couldn't be said to be running but it wasn't quite a walk either.

She reached the top and was nearly knocked out by a bottle of water. She caught it at the last second and shot a glare at Macleod. She panted for a few minutes reclaiming her breath before downing the water. She lobbed the empty bottle at Duncan and stood up straight.

"Feeling better?" He asked after a moment. She could stand up straight and had nearly caught her breath. Narrowing her eyes in hateful annoyance she took a deep breath and nodded.

"Good." Macleod said and took off. She jogged after him.

When they returned to Macleod's car she was almost staggering in weariness. She leaned against the trunk of the huge car and downed another bottle of water.

"Okay?" He asked her. She nodded.

"Good, finish that and we'll take a walk, cool down." She nodded and polished off the bottle. She trailed after him at first but as she began to feel less sore and ragged she caught up with him.

"Will I be sore tomorrow?" She asked him.

"I don't know, depends. Sometimes yes, mostly no." He said.

"Right. I mean I can tell all ready that whatever damage I just did is gone but I'm still exhausted."

"Because we heal so quickly it takes a toll on our energy reserves, you'll need to bear that in mind. You'll be able to heal any wound but it will tire you."

She nodded thoughtfully.

"So what time tomorrow?"

"Five a.m. in the dojo."

"Phwew see you there, do you always work this hard?"

"When I'm training someone."

"So you slack off normally?"

"I wouldn't say that-"

"It just seems dangerous. I mean if you could be training and getting better then.. why not?"

"You need time to live as well."

"Hard to live without a head." Max pointed out. Macleod got in the car without comment Max climbed in after.


End file.
